Beautiful
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Riddick finds an equal. Short ficlet series.
1. Beautiful

**Title**: Beautiful 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: B:tVS, Pitch Black. Riddick finds an equal. 300 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-"Chosen" and "Pitch Black"

**Feedback**: It's the coin of the realm.

**Notes**: Inspired by TtH FFA #347, but my muse refused to go with the Holiday theme on this one and it ended up a little darker than I'd planned. But then, that's Riddick for you.

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They say your brain shuts down in cryo-sleep. All but the primitive side.

No wonder she's still awake.

Been a long time for her, by the look of it. Ship's 21st century, back from the dawn of interstellar travel; slow as hell, not built to last. No telling how much longer it would have kept going if I hadn't run into her, taking the back lanes away from New Mecca.

Lot of other bodies in here, too, all in advanced stages of decay. Cryo was still in development when she was launched; bad batches, limited supplies, chemical allergies, spacers still tell horror stories about the early death tolls. Only surprise here is that she didn't make a full set.

Don't know what she did to get herself locked in this flying graveyard, but I don't need the details to smell the killer in her blood. She's all muscle, lean and tough, and the shackles in her locker are twice as thick as all the others. I felt stir, half-aware, the moment I stepped on board. Hell of a thing, finding a fellow predator in a girl her size.

Wonder if she's still sane. Centuries of loneliness, nightmares of the past the only thing to keep her company. Hard to tell her age; no wrinkles on her face, no baby-fat on her figure, and a road-map of scars that gleams dully against the bright warm back-drop of her body. Shine job took most of the colors away, but I doubt there's any gray in her hair. Our kind don't make it to old age.

"SUBJECT: BUFFY SUMMERS", the label says. "HANDLE WITH EXTREME CAUTION." All this trouble, government must have been saving her for a reason.

Think I'll find out what it was.

Been a long time since I smelled beautiful.

(fin)


	2. Instinctual

**Title**: Instinctual

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Category**: B:tVS/Pitch Black

**Summary**: The Slayer awakens. 600 words.

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Spoilers**: Post-"Chosen" and "Pitch Black"; pre-"Chronicles of Riddick"

**Feedback**: It's the coin of the realm.

**Notes**: Companion piece to the Riddick-POV ficlet, "Beautiful".

* * *

The warmth that floods the Slayer's veins feels foreign to her, almost unnatural. She's been so cold for so long that she's nearly convinced herself she's one of the monsters, an undead thing feeding on the pain and terror always playing behind her eyelids.

The visions have been her one constant in this dark existence. Girls fighting, girls dying; strange wonders and stranger skylines over one killing ground after another. She cannot remember when she last dreamed of familiar faces, and in recent days (months? years?) even the nature of the enemy has changed.

_Death is my gift..._

She has no idea what they are called, these beings who look human on the outside but are so numbed within. They are not vampires, despite appearances (a stab through the neck, the drain of color from skin) for their souls are still their own. They are something far worse, something humanity has done to itself.

They are winning-- or will be-- and they will find her; she knows this as surely as she knows she is the Slayer, despite all else she has lost in her long sleep. But that day is not today. She does not know the man (heavy tread, earthy scent) who has come to wake her-- he triggers no images from the depths of her slumbering memories-- but her senses tell her he is not one of Them. Under the surface of his skin a vital, vibrant something sleeps, something kindred that pulls at her instincts and tells her that he knows she's already awake.

She blinks open her eyes and assesses him as he is assessing her. Silvery orbs shine in the dim light, set in a strong face that gives nothing away; he stands casually, leaning toward her with a hand propped against her (opened!) glass prison, but the tension in his muscles is unmistakable.

"Hello, beautiful," he greets her, in a roughened rumble of a voice that reaches right down to her bones. "You've been sleeping a long time." His mouth twists up at the corner, the smirk of a well-fed predator toying with new prey-- a challenge she is unable to resist.

The Slayer explodes into motion, bursting forth from the cryotube (coffin) that has held her for so long, tackling his tall, muscular frame with enough force to knock him to the ground. He is out from under her as quick as a cat, skittering back into a ready stance; a shiv appears in one hand as if by magic. The smirk smoothens and sharpens into a genuine smile, both joyous and feral.

This, she recognizes: that smile, these movements, this _dance_. Memories surface: long dark hair, lush lips, strength as wicked as her own; blond hair, scarred eyebrow, the scents of smoke and blood. She lets herself go, flowing with instincts as familiar as breathing.

"Handle with caution," he murmurs minutes later, chuckling, as the fight slows to a halt. A bruise darkens one cheekbone and a deep cut mars one arm; he gives her a nod of respect as he lowers the shiv and backs away. "Got a ship of my own here; little thing like you won't take much space. Unless you'd rather stay and wait out your ride."

She is not unscathed, either; it's been years (centuries) since she's had a challenge like this. She cannot yet remember how to make her voice work to answer, but her actions speak for themselves: when he moves to leave the shipwreck that has been her world for so long, she is two steps behind him.

She does not look back.

(fin)


	3. Habitual

**Title**: Habitual 

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not. I claim nothing but the plot.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: B:tVS, Pitch Black. Riddick gets to know his unexpected passenger a little better. 300 words.

**Spoilers**: Post-"Chosen" and "Pitch Black" (2000); pre-"Chronicles of Riddick" (2004)

**Notes**: Follows "Beautiful" and "Instinctual".

* * *

It's an acrid stench, human fear. Unpleasant to the nose detecting it as the emotion is to the one who feels it-- or so Riddick has heard. He can't remember the last time he quailed in the face of any challenge, and the anxiety of the sheep around him is like a fine wine on his tongue.

It's more satisfying than sex, more energizing than the coppery taste of fresh blood, and since the day he made his first kill he hasn't met anyone who didn't exude it around him. Even Jack, all hero worship and makeshift goggles, still feared him underneath-- even when they'd said their goodbyes on Helion Prime.

Finally meeting an exception to the rule has thrown him more than he'd like to admit. This tiny slip of a woman with more grace in her walk than the broken pattern of her speech is more like him than anyone else he's ever met, predatory and powerful and the last of her kind. She follows him around his ship like a half-wild, starving kitten, gradually gentling to his touch but always ready with her claws. She hasn't given him her name yet, but he knows it's only a matter of time; when she cries out quietly in her sleep, the shadows in her eyes following her into dream, she turns in his direction.

It's dangerous to let people close to him-- dangerous to them-- but she has nowhere else to go. And truth be told, Riddick's starting to get used to her company. Maybe he's slipping, but he's starting to look beyond the next meal again, the next free moment; he can think of worse things to do in his self-imposed exile than getting to know a beautiful woman.

Especially one who'd come with her own warning label.

(fin)


End file.
